


Til the Casket Drops

by Wolvesandwerewolves



Category: White Collar
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-12
Updated: 2018-04-12
Packaged: 2019-04-22 02:26:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14298741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wolvesandwerewolves/pseuds/Wolvesandwerewolves
Summary: "He's got the shakes," Peter had said. He thought it was a symptom of residual fear and panic, a side effect of PTSD from the plane explosion that killed Kate.Mozzie knows better.





	Til the Casket Drops

  
It's autumn in New York City. The wind bites his face, flushes his cheeks. He's wearing a new hat that Neal got him as a birthday gift, even though he has no idea when Mozzie's birthday actually is. It's grey wool, a little too warm even in the chill and there's a yellow pom-pom on the top Neal can't resist flicking playfully.

Sometimes, Moz forgets that Neal is still just a kid, not even old enough to drink yet. He's young.

They're standing at the railing of a small overhang, looking out into the rippling water, skyscrapers rising up from the distance. Dead leaves float in the river, dance across the pavement. Halloween is in a few days, and the air is electric with anticipation and excitement. The kids at the park next to them are screaming, playing pirates. They’re searching for an imaginary treasure, the likes of which Mozzie still dreams about even in middle age. He thinks Neal has the same outlandish dreams he does, too big for life and too complex for the law.

Maybe that’s why they get along. Or maybe it’s just Neal.

Neal’s gaze lingers on the children. His breath fogs in the air. Moz can feel it tickling his jaw—they’re standing close, shoulders touching. Mozzie is still getting used to how open Neal is, how he's always touching him. Not in any overly friendly way, but casually; sometimes, when Moz is working on something at the kitchen table, Neal will lean over him, a hand on his back as he asks what he's doing. When Neal is excited about something, he'll grab him by the shoulders or even hug him. After years alone, Mozzie shouldn't be surprised to learn that he's touch starved. He leans into Neal and thinks, not for the first time, how nice it is to have a friend.

But it's dangerous, too. Mozzie would do anything for Neal without a second thought. He knows Neal would do the same for him, too. It's both damning and absolving; in a sense, it's liberating.

“Moz,” Neal says, still looking over his shoulder, “why did you run away from home?”

Mozzie glances away from Neal, following his distant staring. He studies the kids running around, chasing each other, laughing and screaming. He can barely remember being that young. He doesn't ever remember being that carefree or playful. Mr. Jeffries was his only friend at the orphanage. The kids would not play with him—instead, Moz read.

Mozzie looks back at his friend. He wonders if Neal remembers being that young. He wonders what Neal's childhood was like.

“I suppose, I never fit in well. Got into some trouble, left the city. Haven't been back since.” Neal gently plucks a dried, dead leaf only just clinging to an overhanging branch. He crushes it in his palm, blows the small pieces away. Mozzie watches as they drift away, like dust in the wind. “Why did you?”

Neal shrugs, eyes in the past, somewhere Moz can't follow. “My mother got sick—I didn’t want to watch it. And then I found out she had been lying to me my whole life. I couldn't stay.”

Mozzie nods. He doesn't ask about Neal's mother or what she lied about. He doesn't tell him he was lucky to have a mother, because he was lucky to have Mr. Jeffries, but he still ran away. By some odd twist of fate, they both ended up at the same place, supporting each other. He can't resent what brought them here.

“You own everything that happened to you,” he says, trying to make his voice sound wise, older than he is.

Neal smiles at him. “Anne Lamott?”

Mozzie smiles back. He pushes thoughts of the past away, both for himself and Neal. Moz has always wanted to focus on the future, anyway. “You're getting better,” he says, steering Neal away from the water's edge.

“Thank you, Moz,” Neal says, and they both know he means more than the compliment itself.

Mozzie doesn't comment on it. Neal knows, anyway.

 

* * *

 

  
Neal, as it turns out, has always been focused on the present. Thoughts of the future do nothing but terrify him.

Mozzie learns to agree with him. The future is terrifying. All they have is now.

 

* * *

 

  
Mozzie has been yearning for knowledge his entire life. He's read and memorized entire books—autobiographies, biographies, history books, novels, even an entire year's worth of encyclopedias. He craves intelligence like he craves adrenaline from crimes no one connects him to. Luminosity is a high drugs never gave him.

But there are some things Mozzie has never wanted to know.

Neal’s face is flushed, a dark blush spreading past his cheeks. His eyes are red rimmed, with purple-green circles underneath. His hairline is sticky with sweat, plastering strands to his face. Despite the heat of the apartment, there's a fluffy, fake fur blanket draped around his shoulders. Mozzie will have to wash it, and everything else in the apartment, afterwards.

Neal clears his throat pathetically, wheezing slightly. The sound is washed over by the quiet jazz Mozzie has playing in the background, on an old record player he found at a thrift store. Nina Simone may be feeling good, but Neal certainly isn't. Neither is Mozzie.

“It’s just a cold, Moz,” he croaks, taking a careful sip of the herbal tea Moz made for him. His hands shake as he sets the mug back down. Mozzie looks away at the same time Neal does, giving him a bit of privacy even when he's sitting right next to him.

Neal’s eyes are red, watery. It's mostly just the fever, but Mozzie knows part of it is fear—that the feeling scares him more than it should. After all, Neal is right—it's just a cold. Their landlord suffered from the same thing last week, and the week before, it was their neighbor.

But, Mozzie wonders when it will stop being _just a cold_. Neal's shaking limbs, his fevered dreams are reminiscent of a future they're both dreading.

“I know,” Moz says. “You have three days, tops, and then you have to feel better. I have a new job for us.”

Neal blinks at him, cheeks reddening further. He grins, amused and exhausted, his eyes drooping even as his teeth show. “I have three days and then I have to stop feeling bad?”

“Everyday is a new day,” Mozzie says, shrugging casually as he sips his own tea.

It takes longer than it should, but a slow, pleased smile spreads across his face as Neal places the quote. He takes another sip of his tea. Mozzie deliberately does not look at his shaking hands. “ _It is better to be lucky._ Are you sure that applies?”

“I don't see why not. Ernest Hemmingway was the most interesting man in the world—everything applies.”

“Yeah,” Neal says. “The most interesting man in the world.” He hums, eyes falling shut as he a small smile crosses his face. The drugs are starting to kick in—Mozzie should move him back to the couch again. “Y'know, Moz, I think I want to be like him. Interesting. Adventurous.”

 _You are like Hemmingway_ , Moz thinks. “You’re interesting.”

“Am I?”

Moz thinks of everything he knows about Neal. He thinks about everything he doesn't know about Neal.

He thinks about the list Neal wrote almost two months ago now, when he first told Mozzie about his mother.

“I've never met anyone else like you.” He hasn't.

“Or at all,” Neal teases, blinking sluggishly at him.

“Or at all,” Moz agrees.

 

* * *

 

  
“Are you going to tell Kate?” Mozzie asks, studying the glint of dying sunlight reflecting off the wine glass in his hand. He swirls the wine around absentmindedly, paying close attention to the sound of Neal breathing next to him.

Neal shrugs. He doesn't look at Moz, either. He's staring at the silhouettes of buildings in the distance, darkened by the angle of the low sun behind them. The cities in Africa are different than in the United States, and the atmosphere and feel of it is world's away from New York, but it’s beautiful. It's the same red sky setting over a different piece of the earth.

“Should I?” he asks. His words slur with a hint of alcohol, a hint of Swahili. It's probably the first time Neal has spoken English today. Mozzie wonders if it's refreshing to speak his mother language or if it's nice to fade into the ambiguity and false confidence their aliases provide.

“That ring is for her.”

“Don't read into it, Moz.”

 _Did you see her playing with the kids today?_ he wants to ask. There was a field trip at the museum they have plans to hit next week. Kate is their inside man—when she ran into the kids, she played along. Almost too well. Mozzie saw her smiling at them as they left—it was yearning. He wonders what kind of future she imagines with Neal. He can't say that he approves, but he understands the appeal.

“In order to learn the most important lessons of life, one must each day surmount a fear.”

“Emerson,” Neal says automatically. He downs his wine, finally looks at Moz. Mozzie stares back, unflinching. He only wants the best for his friend. Neal seems to understand that this is something necessary. He nods, albeit reluctantly. His eyes are troubled, brows pinched together. “I'll tell her tomorrow.”

“No,” Moz says quietly. He shakes his head. “Wait until we're back in New York. Tell her then.”

“Alright,” Neal says. His gaze returns to the Africa skyline, darkening each minute, along with Neal's tired expression. “I'll wait until we're home.”

  
_Home_ , Mozzie thinks, is something he is still getting used to.

 

* * *

 

  
Kate takes the news well. Mozzie can see her smiling sadly at Neal for a week until she accepts it completely. She grins at Neal's list, adds a few bullet points of her own for them to accomplish together.

But when she leaves, Mozzie can't help but think there was more than one reason for the break up. Maybe she's not as strong as she thought she was. But Moz can't hold it against her. Sometimes, he wonders if he's strong enough himself.

So he lets her go and keeps Neal as occupied as he can. They scratch off a few more bullet points, and add a few more, too. Neal steals from the Lourve and gets away with it—no one notices.

He steals a Raphael, for Kate, and everyone notices. He gets away with that, too.

But he can’t get away with everything.

 

* * *

 

Kate visits Neal in prison every single week. Afterwards, she and Mozzie sit together and talk. Usually, it’s about Neal, what he and Kate talked about that visit. They pour over his prison letters together, and maybe they read a little too much into every other word. Maybe they drink a little too much wine.

That can’t be helped.

Mozzie keeps close watch on the infirmary. Every year, inmates go through manual check ups. He studies the reports, holding his breath, and can’t relax until he finishes each report.

Each one marks one year closer to him seeing Neal again.

 

* * *

   
It's been four years. Four years since he last saw Neal. The feeling is both paralyzing and stimulating. After four years of holding his breath, Mozzie can finally exhale.

June is a lifesaver. She lets Neal stay with her, in the extra guest room upstairs that has been collecting dust on white sheets ghosted over furniture, on the books piled on shelves, and the box of chess squeezed in between _Samuel Coleridge_ and _John Keats_. It's obvious the room hasn’t seen much life since Byron died and the kids moved out.

 _It really is a blessing,_ June tells him. _I’ve been lonely. You were right about him, Mozzie. And after all these years, it’s nice to finally meet your friend._

 _After all these years,_ Moz says, _it will be nice to finally see him again._

June leaves him alone, gives him privacy for when he sees Neal again. He sits at the kitchen table, waiting patiently for Neal to return home from work. Patiently. Patiently.

The sun fades from the windows. Darkness falls.

Mozzie doesn’t get up to turn the lights on.

Eventually, the front door clicks with the sound of a lock turning. There’s a slight _whoosh_ of air as it opens, the _thump_ as it shuts. Footsteps pound slowly and heavily towards the stairs—Neal must be exhausted. That, or he’s out of touch.

Moz smiles.

“I saw the best mind of my generation get run down by the drunken taxicab of absolute reality.”

Neal instantly relaxes both his grip and his posture. He laughs, his entire body leaning slightly towards Mozzie with familiarity. Moz studies him carefully, eyes lingering on each movement. He pays attention to Neal’s words, careful to act as casual as ever. But Neal is a good actor, and if he's distressed, well, Mozzie pushes it to the back of his mind. It's only his second day out of prison, anyway.

He almost convinces himself. It's only one thing and it's easily explainable.

But his eyes flick back and forth irregularly, no rhythm.

 _It’s emotion_ , Moz tells himself. _It's normal._

He hopes that he’s right.

 

* * *

 

Neal finds Kate again. Mozzie lets him go, but plans to find him again, when the time comes. He’s made a promise.

But then the plane explodes and Kate dies and Neal doesn’t. Mozzie can see it in his eyes—he wishes he were on the plane, too. Dying with the love of his life in an instant must feel like paradise lost.

But Mozzie has years more with Neal.

He can’t tell if he feels relieved or cheated.

Kate is gone. He doesn't want to loose another friend. But everything is on him, now.

 

* * *

 

  
_“He's got the shakes,”_ Peter says, and Moz’s chest constricts. His eyes feel hot and his throat tightens. He knew it was coming—he’s been keeping a tally of Neal's symptoms since the day he got back from prison.

The disease is moving fast and Mozzie will have to, too.

 _He’s freaking out about it,_ Peter continues. He’s right. But Neal has a lot more to loose face over than what he knows.

Of course, it can’t be that simple.

_Is anything?_

Neal can’t just loose the love of his life and then move on. He's got to die, too.

Mozzie almost hates him for it. _Years_ , he reminds himself. _We have years._

 

* * *

 

  
The treasure is both a curse and a blessing. It’s freedom and damnation.

“We should run,” Moz says, popping the cork out of a bottle with a little too much force.

Neal looks away from the canvas he’s working on. It’s an original _Neal Caffrey_. He never used to paint himself so much.

Mozzie is almost afraid of what that means. He hasn’t seen a Raphael or Degas in weeks.

“We will,” Neal says. “Not yet.”

He’s waiting. He likes working with Agent Burke and the FBI. He’s in no hurry—they have at least ten years, probably twenty and Neal's sentence will be up in less than four. But Mozzie doesn’t want to wait. He wants to take off now, complete Neal's bucket list—at the very least, complete the bullet points for Kate. She deserves it and so does Neal.

Neal's fingers twitch on the paint brush. The bristles carry paint too far outside it’s area. Neal frowns, bites his lip. He doesn’t say anything.

Neither does Moz.

 

* * *

   
Neal is already drinking by the time Mozzie makes it to the apartment. He’s sitting at the table, idly sketching with lazy movements. Kate is half formed on the page, wisps of hair across her face.

Mozzie already knows it’s bad.

“Keller knows,” Neal says, not looking up from Kate's portrait.

Mozzie takes a deep breath in through his nose, holds it in and counts. _One, two, three, four, five_. He sits at the table across from Neal and pours himself a generous serving of wine, taking a long sip.

“It’s alright,” Mozzie says, knowing he’s trying to convince himself even more than Neal. “Keller doesn’t know where the treasure is. He can’t do anything.”

“He questioned Sara,” Neal says.

“Sara doesn’t know anything,” Moz says. _Does she?_

“No,” Neal says. “But Keller does. He knows everything.”

Mozzie takes another sip of wine. If Keller knows, _for sure,_ they'll have to leave sooner than planned. Maybe this is the catalyst Neal needs.

  
But Keller is a wild card and lately, Neal has been, too. Moz doesn’t know if genuine emotion is tying Neal to New York or if it’s another symptom of the disease. He's not sure which he prefers.

“How did he find out?”

“Moz—Keller knows everything— _everything_ , Moz. He compared me to a dog running away at the end of its life.”

“You’re not at the end of your life,” Mozzie snaps, harsher than he means to. He takes another deep breath, pours more wine. His hands shake, but not for the same reason Neal's do. He’s afraid. “We have _years.”_

“I know, Moz,” Neal says back, tone just as sharp. He sets the pencil down on the table, hands steady, eyes flickering, and pushes his sketchbook away. Moz hands him a glass, nudges the bottle closer. An apology. Neal smiles at him, but it’s tense.

Everything is, these days.

“We can have our things packed by tomorrow.”

“So I can run away? Like a dog?”

“It’s safer,” Mozzie insists. “Keller won’t just leave it alone—he’s planning something.”

“I know,” Neal says. He closes his eyes. Mozzie counts until he opens them again. With each second, he dreads what Neal is about to say. “I’m not ready to run, yet, Moz.”

Mozzie looks away. He stares at the skyline, the darkened buildings only visible in the night by all the New York lights hanging on and surrounding them. He thinks of various cities in various countries—the sky is almost always the same. But none felt like New York.

Neal called New York home.

“Alright,” Mozzie says. “We'll stay.”

**Author's Note:**

> Please leave comments or kudos! 
> 
> I have two more parts to this planned. The next chapter Neal gets a letter from the marshals--his mother is requesting to see him before she dies. 
> 
>  
> 
> Lmk if you guys want it to be before Peter knows anything about WitSec and this is how he finds out or if you want to already know about WitSec and James Bennett. 
> 
> Thanks :)


End file.
